“Oh my God!” a female voice exclaimed from behind her.
Nicole turned to find a chubby black woman standing in the doorway and staring at her with horror.
“What?” Nicole asked, looking around for a spider or rat on the floor.
“You can’t drink from his Pimp Cup! Put it back, quick, before Layla sees you!”
Nicole had no idea what the woman was talking about but felt the urgency in her voice. She dumped the water and set the goblet back up on the shelf, although she was still thirsty.
“Who are you?” Nicole asked.
“Peaches. One of Pleazy’s girls.”
“And who’s Layla?”
“Pleazy’s bottom.”
“What?”
“His bottom bitch. The most trusted girl. Layla’s been with him so long, she’s practically his partner.”
As if on cue, a pockmarked white woman with brassy blond hair and dark roots came into the kitchen. She wore turquoise eyeliner that mismatched her mean little gray eyes. Pleazy was tattooed across her fat pink arm. She eyed Nicole up and down.
“So you’re the new girl,” Layla said.
“Nicole,” she replied, extending her hand. Layla ignored it. After a moment, Nicole let it drop to her side. “Where can I get something to eat?”
“You’ll eat when I say you eat. There ain’t nothing for you now.”
“Then I’ll go pick something up. How do I get the money I earned tonight?”
Layla looked at her for a moment, then bellowed, “Pleazy!”
The pimp appeared in the dirty little kitchen, which was starting to get crowded. He held a cell phone in one hand and a pen in the other.
“This bitch wants her money!” Layla said with a snicker that sent flecks of spit onto Nicole’s cheek.
“I’m hungry and thirsty, and I want a break.” Nicole wiped Layla’s saliva off her face. Peaches slowly backed out of the kitchen.
“Okay, girl, I understand,” Pleazy said. “But we got two more tricks set up for you. They almost here. Take care a them. Then we get you something to eat.”
Nicole didn’t like being told when she could eat. “Just give me my share, and I’ll get myself something. Then I’ll do the next two guys.”
“Your share?” Layla laughed. “You don’t get no share. Your share is a roof over your head and not getting your ass whupped.”
Nicole looked to Pleazy, who shrugged. “That wasn’t our deal,” she said. “I keep a third.”
“Sure, baby, sure.” Pleazy nodded. “But I keep it safe for you. What would you do with that money anyway? Waste it on shoes and shit.” He laughed and took the glass pipe and a tiny Ziploc bag from his pocket. He held it up, tantalizing her. “I take care of you now.”
Nicole stared at the pipe and understood she would never see any money from Pleazy. Charlie Sheen himself could come in here and have a go at her, but she wouldn’t get a dime. She’d get paid in drugs.
She’d fallen far, but she wasn’t a crack whore.
“You know what?” she said. “It was nice meeting you all. It’s been an education. But I’m going home.”
As she headed to the front door, she felt empowered. This was one of the few times she could actually walk away from someone offering her cocaine. Her last hit had been half an hour ago. The high had worn off, leaving her with a relatively clear head. Soon she’d feel desperate enough to do anything for another hit—but she’d worry about that after she got the hell out of here.
Her hand was on the chain at the front door when Pleazy’s arm went around her neck.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said. His elbow locked around her throat. Nicole thrashed and struggled but couldn’t break away. “Nikki, Nikki, Nikki. Why you got to make me do this?”
He spun her around, then punched her in the stomach.
Nicole collapsed to the ground, doubled over in pain. Pleazy pulled her up by the hair. He pulled back his fist; she winced and closed her eyes, but he was careful not to hit her in the face. Instead, he punched her in the stomach again, then dropped her to the floor.
She spasmed in pain, and her empty stomach dry-heaved. She looked up, wiping spittle from her lips and tears from her eyes. As she rose to her knees, a hard kick sent her rolling across the floor into the wall.
“Stop,” she tried to plead between gasps, but little sound came out.
Pleazy grabbed her by the hair one more time. “What’s that?” he asked. “I thought you were gonna apologize, but I’m having trouble hearing you.”
He yanked her by the hair, pulling her up the stairs. The two other women laughed as Nicole scrambled up the stairs after him, trying to stay on her feet so he didn’t rip the hair out of her head.
“I’m sorry,” she tried to say. Pleazy dragged her back to the bedroom with the olive sheets. He threw her onto the floor. She tried to curl up into a ball. “I’m sorry!”
“I’m disappointed in you, Nikki. Now get the fuck up. Up!”
She hauled herself to her feet, hyperventilating. Her scalp was on fire, her stomach throbbed, and her legs were shaky from the adrenaline. He blocked the doorway, staring at her with a cold fury.
“Turn around, bitch,” he said softly. He grabbed the leather shoulders of her dress and pushed her face-first down onto the bed. “I don’t think you’re ready for any more appointments tonight. First there’s something you got to learn.”
He held her down on the bed with one arm, hiking up her skirt with the other. She wasn’t wearing any panties. He smacked her hard across her bare bottom. Then he unbuckled his pants and let them drop to the floor. She panicked, realizing what he was about to do. She kicked back, spun around, and bit his forearm. He recoiled, screeching in pain.
Her triumph was short-lived. He punched her in the face. It was like a sledgehammer to the skull. For an instant everything went black, and the only sound was a ringing in her ears. She stopped struggling.
He pushed her onto her back and put a forearm across her throat, pinning her down by the trachea. She gasped for air she couldn’t take in. Through the fog of pain and terror, somewhere far away, she heard him saying, “Goddammit, Nikki! Look what you made me do.” But he didn’t stop. He was on top of her, grinding, pumping, doing what all the other johns had done to her tonight. But this was different. It wasn’t about pleasure or release for him. It was about power and control and showing her who had it. She went numb. If she didn’t, she might go insane.
He took his arm off her throat. She sucked in a painful rush of oxygen. When he was done, he lay on top of her, crushing her, like so many men before. For an instant, she thought she smelled Larry’s old musky smell.
Pleazy finally grunted, stood, and pulled his pants back up. When he was all refastened, he reached down to touch her cheekbone, where he’d hit her. She flinched—but his fingers stroked her cheek softly.
“Damn, girl. I didn’t mean to fuck you up like that.” He grasped her elbow and pulled her to standing. She pushed her skirt back down, realizing as she did that the act was a useless remnant of modesty from a different world. But, she thought, at least the worst was over.
She was wrong.
He opened the closet door. “You gotta learn obedience, Nikki.”
He put his shod foot on the small of her back and heaved. She flew and crashed into the closet wall, then crumpled to the cluttered floor. She was in pain everywhere at once. She wondered what parts of her were broken. She wondered if any parts of her weren’t broken. He gazed down at her with sadness, as if truly sorry that he had to do this to her.
“You understand who’s in charge, Nikki, we’ll get along just fine.”
He slammed the door shut. Inside the closet, it was black. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the dead bolt slide into place.
34
Samantha had never worked a homicide in this part of the city. When she responded to a typical shooting, she would pass drug boys ready to bolt in the other direction, or law-abiding neighb
ors armed with machetes, the weapon of choice after D.C. banned handguns. But as she turned her Durango onto Kalorama Circle at eleven A.M., she passed Lululemon-clad women with yoga mats slung over their shoulders and Hispanic nannies pushing thousand-dollar Bugaboo strollers. It was a world unaccustomed to the violence that Sam saw every day.
Madeleine’s stone mansion was surrounded by yellow police tape. Sam recalled the last time she’d been here, only two nights ago. She’d felt a certain affinity for the single woman, living alone, working long hours to be successful at her chosen business. Now Sam felt a twinge of regret—then brushed it away. Anna might feel guilty, but Sam would not. She hadn’t killed Madeleine. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel like the villain for investigating someone else’s bad deeds.
Samantha was sorry to hear that Jack was off the investigation. He was a pro who knew how to build a case like this. Anna was sharp, but too cautious for Sam’s tastes.
Inside Madeleine’s house, a team of MPD crime-scene techs were at work, fingerprinting, searching, and cataloging what they found. Samantha made her way past the living room where she’d talked with Madeleine two nights ago, and into a study at the back. Like the rest of the house, it was furnished in antiques and delicate floral prints. A picture window overlooked a neatly landscaped side yard. The room was a pretty oasis from the rigors of urban life and was obviously where the madam had spent much of her time. And it was where she died.
Madeleine Connor’s body slumped forward in a high-backed wooden chair. Her head lay on an antique writing desk, her face twisted to the side. A stain of deep red surrounded her head. She was wearing black silk pajamas with a black silk robe; the color of the robe made it hard to see the bloodstains on the collar. Blood spatter covered the chair, a desk lamp, and the raspberry-colored wall behind the desk, centered at about three to four feet high. A bullet was lodged in the wall, in the middle of the spatter. It looked like Madeleine had been sitting at the desk when the single shot went through her skull.
Sam glanced at the entry wound in Madeleine’s right temple. Even with the naked eye, Samantha could see the blackish circle of seared skin surrounding the wound. Rounds were heated to over 1,600 degrees Fahrenheit when expelled from a gun. Seared flesh was a classic sign of suicide, when the gun was placed directly on the skin. Samantha took a step closer to see the madam’s right hand resting on the desk, still clutching a .380 Beretta.
“Some folks’ll do anything to avoid that grand jury, huh?” McGee’s deep voice rumbled behind her.
“You think this was really a suicide?” Samantha asked.
“Gun in the decedent’s hand. No signs of forced entry. No one else in the house. Even the FBI should be able to solve this one.”
“That part I agree with.”
Sam looked back at the corpse, the blood-spattered desk and walls. In nine years, Samantha had been at the scene of dozens of deaths. Something about this one wasn’t right. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it yet.
She’d had doubts from the moment she heard how Madeleine died. Women didn’t often kill themselves with a bullet to the head. They liked to look nice when they died, often putting on makeup beforehand and using methods that wouldn’t mess up their face. A bullet to the brain was a messier and more masculine suicide method.
“No note?” Sam asked.
“I’m thinking that press conference yesterday was her note. She didn’t want to turn over her records, but she wasn’t going to jail.”
“Was there a box for the gun or a box of ammunition?”
“Hm. Not that we’ve found.”
“Any sign of the agency’s records here in the house?”
McGee shook his head.
“Check the garbage, look for a shredder, ashes in the fireplace, something like that,” Sam suggested. “And don’t let the cleaning lady leave before I speak to her. I’m gonna look around.”
“Suit yourself,” McGee said. “But my men have been through the house. There’s nothing in it.”
That itself was suspicious. Madeleine was dead, her books detailing the workings of her escort agency gone. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of D.C.’s most powerful men had a motive to kill her.
Sam walked through the house slowly, like a real estate agent making an appraisal. It was the home of a woman who liked beautiful things. The decor was coordinated throughout in shades of raspberry, cream, and chocolate. Antique furniture filled the rooms except the kitchen, which had the stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops necessary in any pricey renovation of a historic home. Sketchings and floral artwork covered the walls.
Upstairs was more of the same. A tech was dusting the hallway for prints, but otherwise, it was deserted. Madeleine’s large master bedroom was at the back of the house. A raspberry and gold comforter covered the neatly made bed. Raspberry curtains were held back with gold tassels. The white linen suit that Madeleine had worn to court yesterday was draped over a brown velvet chair. On a dresser was a photograph of Madeleine with a gray-haired man. A boyfriend or family member? Samantha took the photograph.
She headed to the master bathroom, the repository of secrets in any woman’s home. Madeleine’s big bathroom was larger than the bedroom Sam had as a kid. Marble countertops and bath, ornate gold mirror. Counter covered with expensive lotions and serums with words like “anti-aging” and “rejuvenating.” Sam could relate. She shook off the urge to try the creams. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened the drawers in the vanity: a floral case with high-end makeup, a hair dryer that looked like it could take out a SWAT team, a variety of brushes and curlers.
Sam felt empathy for the woman who’d died alone in her house. In many ways, they were alike. Samantha was thirty-four, single, and very aware of her ticking biological clock. If she died tomorrow, she would leave behind a similar collection of lotions and hair products in an empty house.
In the cabinet under the bathroom sink was a curious item. Next to household cleaners and hand-soap refills was a large safe bolted to the floor. The door to the safe was cracked. Samantha pulled it completely open. The black felt-lined interior was empty.
Sam went downstairs to find McGee. An officer pointed her through the door at the back of the kitchen. McGee was surveying the fence in the small backyard. It was made of thick wooden slats and was over eight feet high.
“No climbing over that without a ladder,” Sam said.
McGee turned to her. “Yeah. And the back door was locked with dead bolt and chain. Windows latched. Front door locked.”
“Just the lock in the door handle? Or also the chain and the dead bolt?”
“Just the door handle, so the cleaning lady could get in with her key.”
“Someone could lock that from the inside, go out, and close the door behind them.”
“True.”
“Background check on the maid?”
“Clean.”
Samantha handed McGee the photograph of Madeleine with the gray-haired man. “We can ask if she knows this guy. Neighbors hear anything, see anything, last night?”
“Nothing yet. And no papers in the garbage, no ashes, no shreddings, no books.”
That comment triggered a flash of recognition. “Come with me,” Samantha said, heading back into the house.
In the sitting room, a tech was shooting photographs of the madam at her desk. Samantha leaned over the corpse to turn on the blood-spattered lamp.
“That’s not how she was found,” the photographer protested. “Don’t touch anything!”
Sam peered closely at the corner of the desk where it touched the wall. “Look at this,” she said to McGee.
McGee squinted at the desk. It was hard to catch, because the desk was a dark brown and the walls raspberry. The blood spatter covered the dark pink wall in a typical pattern, denser by the bullet, with the flecks more spaced out toward the edges—except for a small spot on the wall near the desk. There was a clean patch, rectangular and a few inches square, in the area where t
he spatter started to peter out. Samantha pointed to the antique desk. There, too, was a clean patch.
“Something was on this table when that bullet went through her skull,” Sam said.
“Oh, shit.”
“I doubt it.”
“Very funny.” McGee frowned. He preferred to be the one making the jokes—and the evidentiary discoveries. “What, then?”
“Based on the size and shape”—Sam pointed at the straight edge that delineated the stain on the desk—“I’d guess a small notebook or something like that.”
McGee whistled through the gap in his teeth. Then he called to one of his technicians. “Bag her hands,” he directed, pointing to the corpse. “Let’s see if there’s any gunshot residue.”
35
Anna managed to keep it together as she walked from Carla’s office. As a prosecutor, she was used to things breaking badly. It wasn’t unusual to be yelled at by unsympathetic judges or cursed at by hostile family members of the defendant. The ability not to cry in public was a key skill learned early on. She kept a pleasant face as she greeted people in the hallway. Until she got to her own office, shut the door, and sat down at her desk.
Then she let her face crumple, as it had been threatening to do since she stood in front of the Main Justice Building. She cried for the woman who had been in her office a day ago and now was dead; for the end of her relationship with Jack, which, despite its complications, had brought her much happiness; and for the fact that Caroline’s killer was still out there somewhere. She cried until she ran out of tissues, then jotted a note to buy another box, and cried a little more.
She thought about calling her sister, Jody, for advice. But she wasn’t ready to admit to Jody that her relationship—and her case—were failures. She knew what Jody would do in this situation: wipe her face and get back to work.
Anna took a deep breath, found a Starbucks napkin in her drawer, and wiped her cheeks. She took out a compact of powder and dabbed at her splotchy face. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red, but that would pass in a few minutes. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and decided she looked respectable enough for anyone who might come into her office. She snapped the compact shut, then swiveled her chair so she was looking out the window at the homeless shelter and the Capitol behind it.
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